Dependance on the Unfamiliar
by White Star 2
Summary: In a world where Mulder and Scully never met, circumstance, or perhaps more than that, brings Scully face to face with conspiracies she isn't quite ready to deal with.


Title: Dependance on the Unfamiliar  
Author: White Star 2 (hila-p@barak-online.net)  
Rating: PG-13  
Classification: X  
Distribution: Just ask.  
Spoilers: The conspiracy up to Two Fathers/One Son  
Keywords: Alternate Universe, Character Death.  
  
Summary: In a world where Mulder and Scully never met,  
circumstance, or perhaps more than that, brings Scully face to  
face with conspiracies she isn't quite ready to deal with.  
  
Disclaimer: Chris Carter and Fox own everything. The characters,  
the aliens, the conspiracy. Everything.  
  
Author's Notes: This is a sort-of-sequel for my story Requiem of  
Snowfall - it takes place in the AU described there. Many thanks  
to Deslea and Dryad for meticulous betas, to Shad for being so  
enthusiastic he made me want to write a third part, and to Orit,  
for nagging me to actually work on it.  
  
This story's been sitting on my hard disk for months, almost a  
year, I think, and endured countless betas as I hopped fandoms.  
I finally decided to post it in an effort to overcome writer's  
block, and an effort to get back to XF fanfics. Also, it's  
written while ignoring as much as possible the evils done to the  
conspiracy in seasons 8 and 9. (I just had it figured out and he  
goes and changes everything!)  
  
---  
  
"You have to do something," Margaret Scully said to one of the  
two redheads seated at her dining room table. Three days after  
Christmas, three of her children were still staying there, with  
a less than joyous cause to keep them there together.  
  
"I need time to think," Dana said.  
  
"What is there to think about?" Melissa let out the anger Dana  
knew everyone thought should be coming from her. "Dana, he hit  
you!"  
  
Dana didn't answer. She lifted her head from its resting place  
on her fist, then replaced it there, and tried very hard to  
avoid fingering the bruise on her cheek.  
  
"I think you should leave him," Melissa said simply.  
  
"It's not that simple..."  
  
"Not that simple? Have you even been home since Christmas Eve?"  
Dana shook her head. "Where do you plan on staying?"  
  
"Here."  
  
"For how long? Indefinitely?"  
  
"Shut up, Missy," Dana almost growled. "What the hell do you  
know?" She pushed the chair back, nearly knocking it over, and  
disappeared up the stairs.  
  
For four days, she'd felt broken inside. She wasn't ready to  
decide anything yet, but she didn't want anyone else to tell her  
what to do. She hated herself for getting so defensive, but  
then, that wasn't new. She'd spent four whole days hating  
herself.  
  
She sat on the bed in her mother's guest room, and tried not to  
think. It was one of those things where the harder she tried,  
the more she failed, and the more she failed, the worse she  
felt.  
  
It really *wasn't* that simple. It made her see, suddenly, all  
these things she'd missed, both about herself and about him.  
She'd never thought of Tom as the kind of guy who would hit her.  
And she never saw herself as the kind of woman who would have  
second thoughts about staying in a relationship like that.  
  
Well, it wasn't a "relationship like that" yet. It happened  
once. But it made her question her reason to stay. Love? No, she  
started doubting if there had ever been any of that.  
Convenience? It wasn't all that convenient anymore. Being Mrs.  
Colton was suddenly not the novelty that it used to be. What,  
then?  
  
She jumped at the knock on her door a few minutes later. "Dana?"  
Bill's voice came through. When she didn't answer, he opened the  
door slowly.  
  
"Come to check up on me again?" she asked with a dry smile. He'd  
been typically protective since she walked into the traditional  
Christmas morning lineup with a shiner.  
  
"I'm your big brother," he replied with a smile. "It's my job."  
He paused. "Charlie's coming down today."  
  
"It's about time," Dana said. "Did you tell him?"  
  
Bill nodded. She let out something closely resembling a sigh of  
frustration. "He asked for permission to stop in town and commit  
an act of violence."  
  
"Not as long as I'm a federal agent." A smile - a real, warm one  
- slowly creeped onto her face. "Which means--" she started and  
stopped.  
  
"Which means what?"  
  
"I've been thinking of resigning." Bill didn't say anything.  
"That way I wouldn't run into Tom at work. And Dad was always  
disappointed that I didn't become a real doctor..."  
  
His expression softened, first into that of understanding, then  
to that of distanced sympathy. "You still beat yourself up over  
that?"  
  
"I don't know," she sighed. "Maybe I just want to be a real  
doctor."  
  
Bill put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed it lightly. "I  
think you should give it more thought after you've had some time  
to calm down." Always the practical military man. Just like  
Ahab. She looked at him shyly and saluted.  
  
* * *  
  
Despite Bill and Charlie's insistence, she went back to work the  
day after Christmas vacation. Over the short break, she arranged  
to have her office - and all the things in it - moved to  
Quantico for her so that she wouldn't have to waste any time. It  
was her way to deal with pain - go straight back to work.  
  
Odd as it seemed to some, nothing helped her forget everything  
like working on a corpse. The silence in the room around her,  
the complete control she had in that sterile environment, all  
let her mind focus completely and distanced any sort of problems  
she could have been having. So instead of sitting behind her  
desk and pushing papers all day, she told her secretary to hold  
all her calls and threw on her lab coat.  
  
The first body was one that the Baltimore police had handed  
over. A woman murdered with no forensic evidence whatsoever  
outside the body. She sent a gloved hand and grabbed the toe  
tag. Samantha Mulder.  
  
She let the toe tag drop back and uncovered the rest of the  
body. Something always fascinated her about the dead. Each body  
with a story to tell, with everything from the facial expression  
to the state of the liver. For this one, the face looked angry.  
And the liver? Well...  
  
She made the Y incision.  
  
After three hours of cutting, scraping, weighing, and examining,  
Dana had removed a .38 slug from the spinal chord and determined  
that to be the cause of death. She also came to a few other  
conclusions about her first mystery of the day. She'd broken her  
collarbone at a young age, suffered from high blood pressure,  
and had tar in her lungs at a mild enough level to suggest that  
she had either just recently started smoking or had spent a long  
time around smokers.  
  
She spent another two hours in her office. A quick search  
revealed that the FBI had a file on Samantha Mulder. She called  
for it. Just an average Boston businesswoman. Father dead,  
mother remarried, brother missing. She sent it back and started  
typing up her notes, then went out to eat. After lunch was when  
the really weird body came in.  
  
She poked the body on the metal table with the handle of the  
scalpel, trying to comprehend what she saw. The skeletal  
structure was that of an adult male. And everything down to the  
skeleton was charred to a crisp. It was unlike anything she'd  
ever seen. There was no apparent cause of combustion. There was  
no *possible* cause of combustion.  
  
Completely baffled, she called for agent Spender's field report  
on the case, hoping it could shed *any* kind of light on the  
case. Actually, she admitted to herself, she was curious, and  
taking her time with this case meant that she'd be putting off  
her whole afternoon of nothing to do, something she dreaded. If  
she had nothing to do, her thoughts would be running wild, and,  
no doubt, wander back to Tom. It was the last thing she needed.  
  
The report was vague and rather unhelpful. It mentioned the  
sixteen charred bodies, the location the boxcar was found at,  
the license plate numbers of the four cars parked nearby. In a  
rare show of usefulness, it also named the hospital to which the  
two survivors were taken. She decided, despite it being  
completely out of her jurisdiction, to look into it a bit  
further.  
  
When she got there, the staff told her that Dr. Openshaw had  
died in the burn unit that morning. However, they still had the  
second survivor to maybe explain what had happened in that  
trainyard.  
  
* * *  
  
Through the open door, Dana peered at the sleeping body on the  
hospital bed. "We really don't know anything about him," the  
attending doctor told her. "They ran his prints when he first  
got here. Nothing. He wouldn't tell us anything. At first we  
thought he couldn't speak or that there might be some brain  
damage, but then he objected to having blood drawn."  
  
"Do you have any idea as to what they did to him in that  
boxcar?"  
  
The doctor shook her head. "There doesn't appear to be anything  
wrong with him, but we'd still like to run some tests. If he  
lets us." Dana nodded. "Maybe you can get him to talk. Even a  
name will be progress." She smiled and left Dana alone with the  
sleeping man.  
  
Dana pushed the door open a little further and eyed the John  
Doe. His dark brown hair was a mess - not for dirtiness or a  
lack of combing, she noted, but for bad cutting. His skin was  
very pale, as if he'd worked in a cubicle all his life. His face  
was framed by an awkwardly trimmed beard and his only other  
distinguishing features were a rather predominant nose and a  
mole on his right cheek.  
  
He opened his eyes and looked at her. "Hello," she said. He  
looked away. "I'm Dr. Dana Scully, and I was wondering if I  
could talk to you."  
  
"What about?"  
  
"For one, we'd like to know your name." He turned his whole body  
away from her. "Or if there's anyone we can contact for you.  
Family? Friends, maybe?"  
  
"Elvis."  
  
She smiled. "Anyone easier to reach?"  
  
He turned around and opened wide a pair of hazel eyes. She could  
have sworn they were green the first time she saw them. Must've  
been a trick of the light. "My sister," he said. "I need to see  
my sister."  
  
"It would help if we knew her name. Or yours," Dana said. Either  
way they could find his identity.  
  
He paused for a second. It was almost as if he was having  
trouble remembering it. Then there was a look of realization on  
his face. "Samantha," he said. "Samantha Mulder."  
  
Dana was left speechless for a moment. Coincidences like that  
had always given her goosebumps. She realized her mouth had been  
hanging open and closed it, then opened it again. "I--" she  
started. "That's not going to be possible."  
  
The patient, who, according to what she recalled of his sister's  
file was named "Fox", of all things, raised a questioning  
eyebrow. "She died two days ago. She was murdered in Baltimore."  
She'd expected some reaction from him. Shock, grief. But the  
expression on his face was, at most, disappointment.  
  
Then his expression changed, an almost panicked paranoia. He  
looked at her suspiciously, and fidgeted up to a sitting  
position. "I'm with the FBI," she explained. He didn't relax  
until she pulled out her badge and handed it to him. "I worked  
on her case." He looked the badge over for a long moment, and  
after handing it back, sank back slowly until he was lying down  
again.  
  
She took a few steps back. She'd been standing right by his  
bedside, but she found that looking down at people felt strange  
to her. A few steps back leveled her glance, and reduced the  
awkwardness that she was feeling.  
  
"How soon am I going to be released?" he asked.  
  
"Your doctor said they want to run some tests. But otherwise,  
you could probably leave whenever you want to."  
  
He nodded slowly, then looked up in a sharp snap of the head. "I  
need to get out of here," he said and pushed himself up to a  
sitting position. "They'll find me here."  
  
"Who will?"  
  
"You wouldn't understand. I have to get out of here."  
  
Dana shifted her weight from one foot to the other. She wasn't  
all too comfortable with the idea of a witness like this one  
walking off. If he did, questions would be raised as to why she  
came to see him in the first place, and there would likely be  
hell to pay. "You know what?" she said, "I'll make you a deal,  
Mr. Mulder. I'll check you out of here, and you come with me  
someplace safe where we can talk." He nodded.  
  
She left him, sitting in bed, and went to find the attending  
doctor. Releasing him took almost twenty minutes of signing  
forms. It made her rather content with her choice of  
specialization. With that done, she went back to the room. He  
was gone.  
  
She shook her head and muttered, "Sometimes I hate the living."  
  
* * *  
  
Dana let her head drop to the back of the leather couch in her  
office. All she wanted was a little sleep. It was past ten and  
even her secretary had probably given up and was going home.  
  
Dana sighed. She didn't have a home to go to tonight. She'd  
spent almost two weeks with her mother, needed just a few days  
away from her watchful, caring eyes. She needed to feel like an  
adult again, and not a ten-year-old with the flu. She'd already  
dumped her few mobile belongings at her sister's place, but  
going there, she found, crowded Melissa's love life.  
  
A small cynical voice chimed up in the back of her mind:  
something good had at least come out of her marriage. She had a  
large office of her own with a couch comfortable enough to sleep  
on. She should be thankful for that. And for two years of good  
sex.  
  
As she stared at the ceiling and wondered what she could do  
about that small problem of not being able to go home, her eyes  
slowly closed and she lapsed into a fitful sleep.  
  
She jumped at the sound of a buzzer. She scrambled to her feet  
and hit the button on her desk. "Good morning, Dr. Scully," her  
secretary said in a pleasant voice. She gave the clock a quick  
glance. It was morning already. Almost 7:30.  
  
"Good morning, Gillian," Dana forced herself to smile even  
though no one was in the room. "How's my schedule for today?"  
  
"Someone from the Cellar has a 1:15 scheduled." Dana sighed. She  
didn't much care to start explaining the finer points of  
forensic pathology and understanding autopsy reports to yet  
another new guy from the National Center for the Analysis of  
Violent Crime. "Other than that, you have the whole day free."  
  
"Thank you."  
  
"Oh, and Dr. Scully?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"May I make a personal suggestion?"  
  
"Of course not."  
  
"Go home."  
  
Dana thought it over for a moment. "You know," she said finally,  
" I think I just might do that." Both the phone inside the  
office and the one on Gillian's desk outside rang and Dana let  
her pick up. She slipped her shoes on and grabbed her purse and  
her jacket.  
  
When she opened the door to the waiting room, Gillian, holding  
the phone between her ear and her shoulder and covering the  
mouthpiece with one hand, mouthed to her, "Your husband." Dana  
mouthed back, "Not here." As she opened the door out to the  
hall, she heard Gillian start in her pleasant voice, "I'm sorry,  
Mr. Colton. You just missed her..."  
  
After getting through a dozen cadets and half a dozen military  
blocks, she started to remember the downside of working in  
Quantico, which was located inside a Navy base. Sure, she was  
an navy brat, and she'd lived much of her childhood behind such  
barricades, waiting to get out, but back then, it didn't seem  
like such a long time to wait.  
  
Within ten minutes that seemed like forever, she was out and on  
her way to her sister's apartment. Melissa wasn't home, and she  
decided she wanted to do something. Anything. And the most  
sensible thing to do in Falls Church at eight in the morning was  
to go running in the charming little park she'd found on West  
St.  
  
After an hour and three laps around the entire park, her lungs  
ached. She slowed down to a walk, then finally came to a halt by  
small water fountain. She stretched her arms, then her legs.  
When she looked up, someone was staring at her.  
  
It was a man of average height, wearing a suit. She took a few  
steps forward. He didn't take his eyes off her. He just stood  
there, in the middle of the jogging path. Then she gave him a  
second look, and a third just to make sure she wasn't mistaken.  
It was that Fox Mulder. He was clean shaven and his hair  
properly cut. Unlike the last time she saw him, he was much  
closer to passing for "tall, dark, and handsome".  
  
She walked up to him. "Dr. Scully, good to see you again," he  
said in a manner which made her suspect it wasn't entirely a  
coincidence.  
  
"How did you find me?" she demanded.  
  
"I need your help," he said instead of answering. "If you don't  
help me, they'll find me. Once they find me, it all begins."  
  
"What begins?"  
  
He took a step forward, crossing the line of her personal space.  
Less than a foot away, he towered over her, almost a head  
taller. "The end," he replied.  
  
"The end of what?" she asked, confused and uncertain.  
  
"Of everything," he said solemnly. Then his gaze fell upon the  
gold chain around her neck. "Well, everything on this world," he  
said. Suddenly self conscious of it, she reached her hand up to  
it, fingering the gold cross that clung to her sweaty skin,  
moving it back and forth across its chain.  
  
"How?" she asked. She kept telling herself that this was just a  
madman who was missing for too long and had developed a  
psychosis. Or an active imagination. Still, she inquired. It a  
morbid curiosity, like stopping by a horrible car accident to  
take a peek.  
  
"A conspiracy," he said. "A conspiracy of men who are willing to  
sacrifice the lives of everyone on this planet so that they  
alone may live."  
  
It was laughable. What made it even more of a spectacle was that  
every few seconds, he'd turn his head, just a bit, and look out  
toward the street. Then, once or twice, while she silently  
suppressed a smile and tried to think of what to say, he looked  
over her shoulder, that glimmer of paranoia she'd seen at the  
hospital back in his eyes.  
  
She turned her head around, sure she'd see nothing there, that  
it was all part of that grand delusion. But there, behind them,  
was a black sedan. There was someone in the driver's seat, but  
he clumsily ducked down as soon as she turned around.  
  
That wasn't comforting at *all*.  
  
She softly motioned forward with her head and started walking.  
Behind her, a car started up. She walked a few steps. He walked  
beside her. She looked back once, and the black sedan was still  
behind her. And next to it, still parallel parked, there was  
another black sedan with a man in sunglasses in the driver's  
seat.  
  
She tugged on the sleeve of his suit. He'd been looking ahead,  
his expression nearing terrified, and hadn't been noticing her  
small, subtle hints.  
  
They changed direction into the park, where the cars couldn't  
follow, and walked in hasty steps. He looked ready to sprint  
away, and she struggled to keep up with his big stride.  
  
She wondered what she should do next. She couldn't leave him  
there. Even if there was no basis to his claims, (Though it was  
starting to seem like there was) he was still a witness in an  
investigated crime, and seeing as she was the one who let him  
out of the hospital, she should at least have the courtesy  
toward Agent Spender to keep track of him. So she dragged him  
along as she headed back to Missy's apartment. And on the way,  
she demanded some answers.  
  
"You wouldn't understand." He walked, his back straight and eyes  
focused on a distant point ahead. Suddenly, after a few seconds,  
he stopped. She did, too. "Do you believe in the existence of  
extraterrestrials?" he asked, his voice taking a playful turn.  
  
"Logically, I would have to say no," she replied.  
  
"Of course, I wouldn't expect anything different from someone  
like you." They started walking again.  
  
"You believe?" she asked.  
  
"I don't have much choice."  
  
"You've seen a UFO?" He laughed. Then realization dawned on her.  
"This has something to do with your disappearance when you were  
a child?" He looked at her out of the corner of his eye, still  
facing forward. Then she realized he didn't know how much she  
knew about him. "I read your sister's file," she explained  
quickly. "Does it?"  
  
"You're getting warmer, Scully."  
  
She paused. "You're an abductee?" she asked, trying to make the  
question sound as neutral as she could, even though the tone of  
blatant disbelief was creeping in.  
  
He let out a chuckle. "And why is it that you find that so hard  
to believe? As far as the records show, I disappeared off the  
face of the earth. What's to say I didn't really do just that?"  
  
"Are you saying you spent your life riding around in flying  
saucers? Because I do find that hard to believe."  
  
"Just my teenage years, actually. After that, they needed me  
closer to home."  
  
"Do you really believe that?" she asked. It seemed like  
something straight out of a science fiction novel. One big, sick  
joke on his part. "If you were kidnapped, it's possible the  
investigation was sloppy. It's even possible that they managed  
to hold you for so many years."  
  
He nodded. "You think I'm crazy." She looked away from him. He  
wasn't looking at her, but it came as an almost instinctive  
reaction. "And yet you intend to rely on my testimony in  
investigating the murder of those doctors in the trainyard."  
  
"I intend to acquire your testimony first," she replied  
defensively, "Then decide whether or not it's reliable."  
  
"You won't believe it."  
  
She almost expected to hear that. "Were the doctors alien?" she  
asked, mocking.  
  
"No. The doctors were working with the aliens. These aliens are  
infecting all life forms with a black substance called Purity.  
The doctors were trying to develop an alien-human hybrid that  
can survive the infection."  
  
"But the doctors weren't infected with anything. They were  
burned."  
  
"By another race of aliens." Dana rolled her eyes. This was the  
most farfetched theory she's heard since the last time Missy was  
watching Star Trek.  
  
"Why?"  
  
"To expose those who did this to me. To make sure their work is  
never finished. But they're too late." He glanced at her.  
"You're going to have to kill me."  
  
She frowned. The line took her by surprise. Her eyebrows shot  
up, and she forced them into a frown. Something in all that was  
not quite right. If his psychosis was going to drive him to  
death, why would he rely on others? The logical progression  
would be for him to kill himself. Maybe he was looking for  
someone to talk him out of it. And maybe there was far more  
wrong with this man as it appeared from her two shallow  
interactions with him. So she said the first thing that had come  
to her mind.  
  
"You're joking, right?"  
  
* * *  
  
When she got back to the apartment, the door was unlocked.  
"Missy?" she called.  
  
"Dana," Missy emerged from the bedroom, dressed for work and  
toweling her hair dry. "Your phone didn't stop ringing since I  
got here."  
  
"Did you answer it?"  
  
"Tom. I told him you were out." Dana sighed in relief. "You're  
going to have to face him eventually, you know."  
  
"Yes, and eventually doesn't have to be today." Dana and Missy  
exchanged a look of almost hostile disagreement. "Anyway, this  
is Fox Mulder."  
  
Missy shook his hand. "A pleasure." He nodded. "You know what?  
Why don't you make yourself comfortable," she gestured at the  
living room. "Dana, we need to talk." Dana's eyes snapped shut  
and her jaw tightened. Mulder dragged his feet to the living  
room. "Remote's on top of the VCR," Missy called after him, then  
dragged her sister to the kitchen by the arm.  
  
"Seems kind of spooky. Who is he?"  
  
"A patient of mine."  
  
"Dana, you don't have patients. You're a pathologist."  
  
Dana smiled. "He's a witness in a case that came through me."  
  
"Well, what's he doing here?"  
  
"He came looking for me. He said he needs my help."  
  
"He's cute."  
  
"Missy!"  
  
Missy smiled, one of those innocent "what?" smiles she knew how  
to pull off perfectly.  
  
"He's delusional," she said. She felt like the more this Mulder  
was around, the more she had to justify herself to other people.  
"He was kidnapped when he was young. He's extremely paranoid,  
and keeps talking about aliens and conspiracies."  
  
"He's an abductee?" Missy asked, genuinely interested, and Dana  
felt like she'd lost another one to insanity.  
  
"He can't possibly be. If you really look at the facts--"  
  
"Is that your opinion?" Missy cut her off. Dana was actually  
glad. She wasn't sure where her point was going, or even that  
she *had* one. She was becoming one of those people, she  
suddenly noted to herself, that never kept an open mind, no  
matter how little evidence they had to support their claims. She  
always disliked them, snorting at their disregard for what she  
always held as the true core of science. She didn't want to  
become one of them.  
  
She looked Missy straight in the eye.  
  
"What does he say?" Missy asked.  
  
"He says he is."  
  
"Typical Dana behavior. You'd shoot him before you'd admit he  
could be telling the truth." Dana froze. "What is it?"  
  
"Nothing. Just something he said. Look, could you keep an eye on  
him for a while? I need a shower." Dana left the kitchen. She  
could almost hear the hot water calling her...  
  
"Just don't take too long," Missy said. "I need to get to work  
eventually."  
  
"Sure, sure."  
  
She lost herself under the hot water. Time seemed to stop and  
all her worries disappeared. She wrapped a bathrobe around  
herself and toweled her hair dry. Then, out in the kitchen,  
where she had left her briefcase, her cellphone started ringing.  
Let Missy answer it, she told herself. When it kept ringing, she  
assumed Missy had already left. She strode out of the bedroom  
and answered it.  
  
"Dr. Scully?" a voice she didn't recognize asked.  
  
"Yes?" She asked, relieved. She expected to find herself  
confronted with Tom.  
  
"This is Agent Jeffery Spender. You looked at a case of mine  
yesterday."  
  
"Yes," she said, "I did. I filed my report on the corpse. I  
really can't say I found much. It should've reached your desk  
this morning."  
  
"It did. It did... there's one other matter about this case that  
I need to ask you about."  
  
"Which is?" she glanced toward Mulder and pulled the knot on her  
bathrobe tighter.  
  
"My witness. You discharged him from the hospital. Mind telling  
me where he is?" There wasn't anger in his voice. There was  
barely a shred of annoyance. He talked as if he really didn't  
care about the case.  
  
"He's okay," she said. "I can have him in your office this  
afternoon, if you'd like."  
  
"I'd appreciate it," he said. "This investigation's going  
nowhere without him, and I hear from Colton that the AD is not  
going to like it if we don't crack this one."  
  
She gave an almost inaudible cough of discomfort at the mention  
of the name, then said, "I'll bring him by myself."  
  
She hung up.  
  
"About me?" the voice came from behind her. Dana put her phone  
down. She turned around and nodded. "It's too bad they'll all  
look at me like I'm crazy before they even listen."  
  
She said nothing. She didn't lower her gaze, change her  
expression, nothing to hint that she had an opinion in the  
matter.  
  
He chuckled softly through an embarrassed smile. "This is the  
part where you're supposed to comfort me by telling me that no,  
I'm not crazy, and you're sure they'll at least listen." He  
looked away and rested his cheek on his hand. "But you think I'm  
crazy, too."  
  
"I don't know." Again, the image of a fatal car crash came into  
her mind. She had to take just one more peek before she moved  
on. "I haven't heard your story yet. But I'm sure there's a more  
rational explanation than the one you offer."  
  
He shook his head. "I was twelve," he said, his tone suddenly  
different, reminiscing. Pained. "It was November. My sister and  
I were playing..." he paused, looking lost and confused. "What's  
that game called?" he muttered. She looked at him, suddenly  
feeling sympathy, almost pity, for this man. She shifted her  
weight uncomfortably, then lowered herself slowly to the other  
side of the couch, two throwpillows and a remote control away  
from him. He didn't notice. "Stratego," he said with a hint of  
victory in his voice. "And there was a light. Then they came. My  
sister screamed, but they hadn't come for her."  
  
She looked at him, his shoulders hunched, the memory drawing him  
deeper and deeper. "Who were they?" she asked in a whisper,  
afraid that anything louder would scare him out of his trance.  
"Men?"  
  
"No," he said, his head supported on his arms, his palms pressed  
against his temples. "The men only started showing up when the  
tests started." Dana suddenly felt such a wave of compassion for  
this man; for the twelve-year-old child crying for help through  
the memory. She forgot that he was a complete stranger, and that  
she was sitting in front of him in nothing but her bathrobe. "I  
knew some of them," he continued, his voice never faltering.  
"They were friends of my father, men he worked with."  
  
"And they're the ones who want you dead now?" she asked.  
  
"No. They want me alive. And it can't be allowed." She stopped  
herself before asking why. "But maybe..." he paused. Then he  
raised his head with a movement so sudden she was almost taken  
aback by it. For a moment, she was pinned by his gaze, unable to  
move, almost unable to breathe.  
  
With a hint of a smile, he said, "Maybe you're going to be the  
one that saves me."  
  
He sent his hand over the short distance between them. Alarms  
went off in her head. Just before his hand touched her arm, the  
ringing of her phone made her jump.  
  
As a quick excuse to get herself out of a tight spot, she jumped  
up and crossed the room to where she left the phone. She  
answered it without even thinking.  
  
And regretted it.  
  
"Dana, where the *hell* have you been?" Tom's less than calm  
voice startled her out of her serene daze.  
  
"I..." she stuttered, caught off guard. "Out running."  
  
"No, I mean where the hell have you been for ten days? People  
are starting to talk!"  
  
"I'm sure they would have started much sooner if they'd seen my  
face on Christmas morning," she said, struggling to keep her  
voice composed.  
  
"Dana," his voice turned soft. She could tell he was trying too  
hard to sound vulnerable. "You don't want to throw away our  
marriage over that one little incident."  
  
"Funny," she spat out, "I never considered it 'little'. And what  
I want or don't want to throw away is my own business," she  
found herself shouting.  
  
"Dana, let me come over. Let's just talk this over rat--"  
  
Dana slammed the phone closed, breathing heavily into the sudden  
silence of the room. She shouldn't let him get to her. She  
really shouldn't.  
  
Still, she couldn't help trembling. Of course, the analytical  
part of her mind noted, that could be because she was standing  
here in a bathrobe, her hair still wet. But she couldn't bring  
herself to move.  
  
"Are you okay?"  
  
The calm, masculine voice startled her into whirling around,  
clutching at her robe in some parody of defense. Mulder started  
at her abrupt motion, stepping back. "I'm sorry," he said, "I  
heard..."  
  
"My husband," she explained shortly.  
  
"Oh." He hesitated, hands stuffed into his pockets with taut  
nervousness. Dana suddenly realized that he was attempting not  
to stare at her.  
  
"I didn't know you were..."  
  
She shook her head. "I don't think you could even call it a  
marriage anymore." She found it odd that she was suddenly so  
open with a complete stranger. He'd let her in to his soul, his  
past, only moments before, and the air was still thick with  
tension. "I don't think I could ever bear going back to it."  
  
"Do you have to?" His voice was careful, under control, but  
there was an edge of wistfulness to it. He took a step closer.  
And another. And another. He put his hands on her shoulders in  
an almost protective manner. "You don't have to."  
  
He touched his lips to hers hesitantly. It caught her completely  
by surprise. She took a hurried step back, tearing out of his  
grip. By the time she returned her gaze to him, his eyes were  
fixed firmly on his shoes. Almost instinctively, she tightened  
the knot on her bathrobe, and only then realized consciously  
that it was the only thing she was wearing.  
  
She was too old to blush and stutter like an embarrassed  
teenager, she told herself, but it didn't really stop her from  
doing it. He, too, tried to mumble some sort of apology that  
came out unintelligible. And, again, they lapsed into an  
embarrassed silence. She hugged herself.  
  
There was a knock on the door. She didn't move. Then the  
doorbell. "They came for me," he said, and though his voice was  
almost a monotone, it still conveyed every bit of panic that he  
was feeling. Her steps toward the door were small and cautious,  
once again tightening the knot on her robe. The belt was so  
tight it was starting to tear into her still-damp skin. She  
looked through the peephole and sighed.  
  
"Is it them?" he asked, standing behind her. She shook her head.  
She placed her hand on the handle and hesitated. There was  
another knock and she could feel the vibration of it. She gave  
Mulder a stern look, then pulled the door open.  
  
Through the narrow crack created, Tom looked at her harshly. His  
expression seemed to soften for a moment, long enough to say,  
"Dana, honey, we need to talk." He pushed the door open,  
succeeding despite her efforts to the contrary.  
  
She could tell by his face exactly when he caught sight of  
Mulder. And, a split second later, when he came to a conclusion  
of what had just happened, or what was about to happen. "Son of  
a bitch!" he charged forward, nailing Mulder to the wall with a  
thud.  
  
"Tom! Stop it!" she demanded, even more aggressive than she'd  
intended to sound.  
  
Tom released the pressure and Mulder fell an inch to the ground.  
He stood there, looking slightly embarrassed and did nothing.  
Tom, on the other hand, was looking as if he was about to charge  
forward at her.  
  
"How long did you think it was going to take for me to figure  
this out?" he roared. "Do I look this stupid? Because if I do,  
I'd like to know!"  
  
"It's not like that," she tried to explain calmly, remembering  
what had happened the last time she let their argument heat up  
too much.  
  
"Then what the hell is it like?"  
  
There was a knock on the door. Then another. It startled her.  
Tom turned around, and she looked at Mulder. There was terror in  
his eyes.  
  
"You can't let them take me," he said, his voice nearly drowned  
out by the violent pounding on the door.  
  
"What the hell are you talking about?" Tom sounded about ready  
to explode. The pounding continued, getting louder.  
  
Mulder met Dana's gaze. "You have to kill me." Then he added  
with a decisiveness that made her shiver, "Now!"  
  
"Anything you say, you crazy son of a bitch," Tom growled and  
pulled out his gun.  
  
"Tom," Dana asked slowly, "What are you doing?"  
  
"Just what he asked us to." The banging on the door sounded like  
cannonfire. Tom's hand was steady. The gun pointed right between  
Mulder's eyes. Mulder, steady and expressionless, closed his  
eyes.  
  
The door broke down.  
  
A dozen men in quarantine suits barged in. Tom changed the aim  
of his gun only to have it taken from him. Mulder breathed a few  
curses. A voice screamed at them to get down on the ground.  
  
Tom managed to yell, "Who the hell are you?" before being forced  
to his knees. Half of the men started stapling plastic to the  
walls and sealing off windows.  
  
A pair of blue boots, part of the suit, stopped next to them.  
Dana couldn't catch a glimpse of the face. "Who are you?" Colton  
yelled again.  
  
"We're from the Center for Disease Control," the voice came from  
above them, calm and rational. "Please remain calm and where you  
are for your own good. You'll be transported to a quarantine  
facility as soon as we can secure the environment."  
  
Dana's mind raced, too close to panic. Everything made less and  
less sense every second. "Quarantine for what?"  
  
"A contagion of unknown origin."  
  
* * *  
  
On the drive out to... wherever it was they were being taken,  
Dana just wanted to curl up and die. It was bad enough that she  
felt like cattle, being transported in a truck on a bumpy road  
for hours on end, but Tom was there, glaring at her the whole  
time.  
  
She didn't say a word.  
  
When they got there, they were separated. She was stripped of  
the little she had on - the bathrobe - and given a towel. Then  
they lead her out to a public shower; the most public one she'd  
ever seen. She felt more than slight relief to find out she was  
alone in the large room and more than slight panic when a door  
was opened and another naked body was lead in.  
  
Even when she realized she knew that body, as well as one would  
after almost two years of marriage, her panic did not subside.  
He looked at her. She turned her back to him and let the hot  
water burn her back.  
  
Then she found something much like a hospital gown to wear and  
tried the five doors of the room, looking for an open one. All  
of them were locked. She gave the handle of the last one another  
strong shake for good measure and resisted the urge to kick it.  
  
She felt his breath on her damp skin. He was standing right  
behind her, and she didn't dare look. The door in front of her  
opened. She pushed it and poked her head through for a look. It  
was an empty room with one low wooden bench in its center. She  
walked in.  
  
The door closed. She wasn't sure if it was by Tom's hand or not  
but she didn't care. Three more blue quarantine suits walked in.  
The faces behind the masks were cold and emotionless. She'd  
given up on even making eye contact with those inside.  
  
Instead she tried to figure out why. Why were they here. Why  
would the CDC burst into her sister's apartment and take into  
custody two federal agents. It had something to do with Mulder.  
Maybe it had to do with where his captors had held him.  
  
Or maybe the CDC knew something else... what would they know?  
The FBI was still investigating the case. But if that thing went  
as high up as Mulder had implied... that would mean other things  
he'd implied would have to be true as well, things there was no  
scientific explanation for.  
  
Instruments were waved around her. Tom was shouting. The men  
behind the masks weren't responding. "Are we going to be able to  
talk to someone who can tell us what this is all about?" No  
reply. The three men filed out as neatly as they had filed in.  
  
"Will they at least tell us where the hell we are?" Tom's voice  
echoed in the almost-blank walls of the room.  
  
"I hate to point out the obvious," Dana said dryly, "But I don't  
think they want us to know."  
  
"They can't do that!" he bellowed. "We're federal agents!"  
  
"They're aware of that by now. You've been yelling it out and  
waving your ID around since the moment they barged into Missy's  
apartment."  
  
"Will you knock that off?!"  
  
"Or what? You'll hit me again?"  
  
Tom stopped cold with a hurt expression on his face. Just then  
the door opened. Two men and one woman in white lab coats walked  
in. One was carrying something that looked like a cross between  
an ice chest, a tool bag, and a medicine bag. Right on their  
heels followed an old man. His wrinkled face was expressionless  
as he closed the door and lit a cigarette.  
  
Dana shuddered as the woman's cold fingers pressed against her  
skin. She suppressed another shudder when she realized that the  
smoking man's eyes were focused solely on her. Maybe out of him  
they could get some answers. She opened her mouth to speak but  
Tom beat her to it.  
  
"We'd like to know where we are and why we're here," he sounded  
like he was forcing himself not to yell. He probably was.  
  
"You're in a quarantine facility," the man replied in a cloud of  
smoke.  
  
"Quarantine for what? And where's Mulder?" she was quick to ask.  
  
"An unknown contagion. Fox Mulder remains the only survivor from  
an occurrence that killed six doctors. He's being kept under  
watch. You were the last people in contact with him."  
  
Dana felt rage overtake her. "No one is sick or infected here,  
or you wouldn't be walking in here dressed to the nines for the  
pleasure of our company."  
  
He let out another puff of gray smoke. "I suppose you're right.  
But you never know."  
  
"I want to see Mulder," she demanded. Behind her, Tom muttered  
something. She turned her head and shot a glare in his  
direction.  
  
"I'm afraid that's not going to be possible. He's under medical  
care."  
  
"I'm a medical doctor," she started.  
  
"That should stay out of this." He threw the cigarette butt on  
the concrete floor and stomped it out.  
  
She threw a quick glance in Tom's direction. She saw the rage in  
him just about to overflow, something that would, no doubt,  
spoil all chance she'd ever have to get some answers. She had to  
be the first to say something, to keep control of the situation.  
"No," she said harshly. "I want to know what's going on."  
  
"Very well," he said, taking a pack of Morley's out of the  
inside pocket of his jacket. "But you have to understand that  
there's a price." He pushed a cigarette between his lips and lit  
it. She didn't move.  
  
"Very well," he said and opened the door for her.  
  
* * *  
  
"They say gray's the new black," a sarcastic voice chimed in the  
back of her mind. Dana decided that 'they' hadn't a clue what  
they were talking about. Still, the gray outfit she found in the  
locker that man had lead her to was comfortable. She ran a hand  
through her hair, still damp from the shower, then wiped it dry  
on the cotton pants. There was no trace of her old clothes  
anywhere. They were probably nothing but ashes now.  
  
The shoes she found in the locker were a little too big, but she  
didn't think this was the right time to complain. The man puffed  
at his cigarette and motioned for her to follow him. She did.  
  
"Where are we?" she asked, her eyes racing between doors along  
the narrow corridor.  
  
"Fort Marlene," he replied. She saw only the back of his head as  
he walked, and his voice sounded almost disembodied.  
  
"The high containment facility?"  
  
No reply.  
  
"Am I really going to see Mulder?"  
  
"In time." At the end of the long hall, he stopped and unlocked  
a door. Dana looked back and couldn't tell which door they'd  
come out of, if she could even see it from here. She couldn't  
see the end of the hall.  
  
Behind the door was a large courtyard. It had two wide walkways  
paved with faded red stone, which crossed in the center. There  
was low cut and well groomed grass all around, and four tall  
trees towered above the buildings, and their tops, exposed to  
the wind, shook once in a while.  
  
In the center, where the two paths crossed, there was small  
round fountain of gray concrete, and around it, four wooden  
benches.  
  
He headed straight for one of them, completely disregarding the  
cold outside and the fact that she had on nothing more than the  
thin cotton outfit. She walked out after him, feeling the cold  
seep deeper into her with every passing second.  
  
When he sat, she got a look at his wrinkled profile. He didn't  
seem to respect the tranquil environment around him and lit a  
cigarette. She stayed standing next to him. "You don't trust  
me," he said.  
  
"I don't trust too many people right now." she answered  
nervously.  
  
"Yes, it's a shame." He played around with his cigarette and  
didn't spare her a look. "After two years together. And on  
Christmas Eve, of all occasions." He finally raised his gaze to  
meet her angry glare. "No, it's not common knowledge. We've been  
keeping an eye on you, Dr. Scully."  
  
"'We'?"  
  
"You've come to our attention a while ago. And you could be a  
very valuable asset to our organization."  
  
"I assume that's the same organization that's kidnapped us under  
the guise of the CDC."  
  
He took another puff. She took that for a yes.  
  
She sighed, realizing he wasn't going to answer any *relevant*  
questions. "Why is it that you're interested in me?"  
  
"You're a bright young scientist. You could be of use to the  
project."  
  
"...project?"  
  
"But I am getting ahead of myself. You do remember the charred  
body that you autopsied yesterday?" She nodded. "I've read your  
autopsy report. You haven't established a cause of death yet."  
She decided not to reply. The only thing she could think of was  
how to keep up with what was obviously a mind game. To keep her  
position she had to maintain some semblance of power and maybe a  
little dignity.  
  
The man didn't wait for her to say anything. "He was burned to  
death by a device unlike anything you've ever seen."  
  
"Something that you've seen before? Who developed it?"  
  
He, too, wasn't replying and she assumed she had found the  
correct tool for getting through this conversation - silence. He  
looked down at his hand to notice that his cigarette was burning  
down to the filter. He flicked it away and it shot clear across  
the walkway and into the grass. He lit a new one and inhaled  
deeply.  
  
"Do you believe we're not alone in the universe, Dr. Scully?" he  
seemed to suddenly change the topic.  
  
"You're the second person who's asked me that today."  
  
"Your answer is no, I suppose. And I suppose you could offer me  
the conventional wisdom of the orthodox scientific community.  
What if I were to tell you that there are aliens getting ready  
to colonize this planet and that even as we speak we're in  
danger of starting a viral holocaust that will wipe out the  
entire human race?"  
  
She let a tiny, almost amused smile creep onto her face and turn  
into a condescending look accompanied by a raised eyebrow. "I  
enjoy good science fiction as much as anyone, I suppose. But  
that's a bit much, even for me."  
  
"But that's where you're wrong. If it were mere science fiction,  
you wouldn't be here today." He put out his cigarette, only half  
smoked, and rose to his feet. "Dr. Scully, before I can tell you  
anything more, there is a job proposal of sorts that I would  
like you to consider."  
  
* * *  
  
Aliens? And global conspiracies? She'd just spent the past half-  
hour listening to the wildest story she'd heard in a long time.  
What worried her was how much it resembled Fox Mulder's story.  
And, in the back of her mind nagged the worry that they were  
right.  
  
Why had she agreed to this, anyhow? Most likely because it was  
the convenient thing to do at the time. If they weren't serious,  
if they were just stringing her along, there was nothing to  
worry about. If they were serious, refusal could very likely be  
suicide.  
  
So now she was in an elevator in a different part of Fort  
Marlene, standing next to another elderly man. It seemed to her  
that everyone involved in this so-called conspiracy was at least  
in their sixties. She wasn't given a name, but she'd heard the  
smoker call him "Ronald" when he first showed up. His hair was  
gray, darker than the smoking man's, and curly, cut just long  
enough for the curls to give it volume, and like all the older  
men she'd seen walking around he was wearing a suit.  
  
"This way, Dr. Scully," his distinctive voice shook her from her  
reverie. He pointed to a door. The overhead sign read "CRYOLOGY"  
in large white letters.  
  
He passed a card that he took out of his pocket through the key  
slot, like he'd done to enter the elevator and to leave the  
quarantine section. It beeped and he pushed the door open. It  
locked behind them and she jumped. She could get into the  
Pentagon easier than this. All this security was making her  
nervous, and she wasn't quite sure why. She was working in as  
high-security an environment and grew up around more armed  
marines than this. Maybe it was that for the first time she was  
on the detainee side that was making her so uncomfortable.  
  
The guard in the booth looked up with an annoyed expression. As  
soon as he saw her guide, his expression changed to one of  
respect and Dana was sure he was about to jump up and salute. He  
punched a sequence of keys into a pad on his desk and the door  
unlocked.  
  
They stopped by the guard who held up a clipboard and pen and  
asked, "Will she be logging in?"  
  
"Not this time," her guide replied.  
  
They walked into a narrow room. The left wall was filled with  
glass doors and behind each door stood a metal container of  
liquid nitrogen. He stopped by a door labeled "Purity control".  
Both arms elbow deep in insulated gloves, he opened the glass  
door and slid out the tray on which the container stood.  
  
"Would you like to do the honors?" he asked her. She shook her  
head, still unsure of what she was doing here. He pushed the  
metal handle on the lid of the container and it moved with a  
click. The lid lifted with the hissing sound and rising smoke of  
liquid nitrogen meeting air.  
  
His hand reached in and grabbed at something. As he pulled it  
out slowly, his eyes stayed focused on her. First she only saw  
the metallic handle his hand had grabbed, then a metal cylinder.  
And there was something inside the cylinder.  
  
A head?  
  
It was held in place by metal bolts, and only when the nitrogen  
vapors cleared, she could see that it was an egg shaped head and  
out of proportion for the body that was pulled out from the  
nitrogen.  
  
On any other day she would have attributed it to a birth defect  
caused by, perhaps, drug use or smoking.  
  
But not today.  
  
Today she was aware of the grayness of the skin. No, it wasn't  
discoloration due to the sub-zero temperatures. Even liquid  
nitrogen couldn't do that to human flesh. And the eyes were set  
much too low for it to be human. On any other day she would've  
assumed this to be an elaborate hoax.  
  
But not today.  
  
"It's..." she started to say but couldn't find the words.  
  
"It's not human," he said with a stillness and calm in his words  
that surprised her. She reminded herself to breathe. The air  
could barely get past her throat and it made a gasping sound.  
"It's the alien fetus we were given for the project. Now that's  
it's complete, they'll want it back, most likely."  
  
"I... Do you have any data on it that I can see?"  
  
"Plenty. We've been gathering it since 1947. We're still a long  
way off from a vaccination."  
  
"Vaccination to what?"  
  
"To Purity." She tried to hide her confusion. He continued.  
"There's been a sort of vaccination race between us and the  
Soviets. It was the truth behind the Cold War. And it isn't over  
yet."  
  
"Who's ahead?"  
  
"It's hard to say. We've compromised the effectiveness of the  
project for its secrecy. The Russians aren't concerned with mere  
trivialities such as public opinion." She wasn't sure what he'd  
meant by that, but by his tone she could tell it wasn't good.  
  
She resisted the urge to touch the fetus. It was probably warm  
enough to touch bare-handed now, but... but what? What was worst  
that could happen by touching it? She could be reassured that  
it's real. The realization could sink in.  
  
He replaced the fetus in the container and locked it. She  
followed him back where they came from, down the halls of the  
fort. Instead of crossing the heavy door to the quarantine area,  
they turned out into a courtyard - the same one they had come  
from.  
  
It was already getting dark - it couldn't be any later than  
four-thirty, she told herself. But the courtyard was well lit  
and she could see two men standing, arguing. One of them white  
haired and the other, the taller one was smoking.  
  
Her first inclination would have been to stand back. Still, she  
followed her guide as he approached.  
  
"This is unacceptable," said a voice with a British accent. "He  
should have been terminated!"  
  
"I was waiting," the smoking man's voice replied.  
  
"Waiting for what?" The other voice was more aggressive. "This  
is not the time to let your personal feelings cloud your  
judgment. We have to terminate him now."  
  
"Or turn him over," the smoking man suggested.  
  
"The vaccine isn't ready. It would be mass murder," the  
Englishman said with a leveled gaze and an outraged tone. The  
smoker responded with silence. "What do the others say?"  
  
"They're willing to turn him over. They want to save themselves.  
And some want to cooperate with the rebels."  
  
"That's suicide."  
  
"We suspect infiltration of the group."  
  
"Handle it."  
  
Both turned their heads toward the two approaching on the  
concrete path.  
  
After a few seconds of intense silence and looks exchanged  
between the men, the smoking man said, "Dr. Scully must be  
tired. You should find her a suite for the night." The last was  
addressed to her guide.  
  
"This matter can't wait," said the one with the accent. "They  
may learn of it any moment and we have no inoculation."  
  
"The black oil?" Dana asked timidly and no one replied.  
  
"Talk to the Russians," said the smoking man. He tossed his  
cigarette away with great force, and by his expression Dana  
suspected it was a last resort suggestion.  
  
"We've tried. There's only one way to solve this."  
  
The smoking man stopped in search of something to say, and Dana  
began suspecting that there was a rivalry between these two men  
and that this had something to do with it. The Englishman turned  
his slightly upward gaze from the smoker and downward to her.  
"Young lady," he addressed her, "There is something we would  
like you to do for us, now that you are a member of our group."  
  
"Are you testing me?" she asked.  
  
"We are, indeed. This is going to be your chance to prove  
yourself to us." He paused dramatically. "And the first time you  
make history."  
  
* * *  
  
Dana stared through the small glass windows in the doors of the  
room. Fox Mulder lay there on the high operation table, calm and  
quiet. Until they pulled out the syringe, that is. Three doctors  
had to hold him down as he screamed and kicked. Finally one of  
them pushed the needle into the back of his neck and emptied it.  
  
"No! You bastards!" Mulder screamed over and over again. "Don't  
you realize what you're doing? No!"  
  
"Don't you realize what you've done?" he cried after them in  
despair as they left the room, then buried his head in the  
pillow. Was he crying? She fingered the metal cylinder in her  
pocket and decided not to wait. She pushed the door open  
quietly.  
  
"Hey," she whispered softly.  
  
He turned around. She stood at the end of the table, frozen. He  
opened hazel eyes at her shot her a quick pained smile. "Dr.  
Scully."  
  
"How are you holding up?" she asked.  
  
"Five minutes ago I would've said good. Now I don't think so  
anymore." She averted her gaze. Maybe she could've spared him  
this. But the Englishman had told her not to raise any  
suspicion, and stopping him from receiving the final shot, the  
final stage of the hybridization, would certainly make Them  
suspect. He sat up slowly until he was back to his original  
advantage of being several inches taller than her. "You know  
about it?"  
  
"They told me."  
  
"Do you believe them?"  
  
"I... I don't know." She took a deep breath and pulled herself  
together. She took her hand out of her pocket.  
  
"That's more than I got a few hours ago. They must have a great  
spokesperson."  
  
"No," she admitted. "They had the one thing I needed to be  
convinced. Proof."  
  
"Proof," Mulder echoed. "But you're still not sure you believe?"  
She shook her head. "How much more do you need?"  
  
"I don't know," she said and fingered her cross, hanging in  
place on its delicate gold chain. "I want to believe." She found  
her hand had unconsciously moved toward her pocket.  
  
He slumped back to his elbows with a disappointed look on his  
face. She wanted to say something. "You know it's all over now,"  
he said, "The future. Once they turn me over, it all starts."  
  
She yawned, despite her attempts not to. "Listen," she said. "We  
both had a long day. Don't think about it. Get some sleep."  
  
He touched her arm at the elbow, and she shuddered. Only that  
morning he had touched her with that much pain and sincerity  
and, somehow, it seemed to all be conveyed through that one  
touch. She was starting to get second thoughts. Suddenly, she  
remembered that she was still wearing the facility's gray  
outfit.  
  
His hand slid down her arm and tried to gently pry her hand open  
and hold it, maybe intending to comfort her, maybe hoping she  
would comfort him. She clenched her fist tighter.  
  
He gave up and fell to the metal table with a thud. He turned  
his back to her and shut his eyes. She snuck the metal cylinder  
out of her pocket. She should probably wait until he fell asleep  
- that was what they'd told her to do. This conversation was  
just a waste of valuable time, as far as they're concerned. But  
she couldn't do it before she had a chance to say something to  
him, to apologize. No one else would appreciate it, but if she  
did, maybe she'd be able to forgive herself someday.  
  
"Don't work for them," he said, barely above the soft hum of  
machines around him. "It's not worth it."  
  
"Don't worry," she put a hand on his arm. She pushed the button  
at the end of the cylinder. A four-inch stiletto popped out with  
the sound of metal scraping. It was deafening in the near-  
silence of the room but Mulder didn't budge. His muscles tensed  
beneath her hand. He knew. He was afraid.  
  
She froze, her gaze shifting between the sharpened point and the  
back of his neck. She breathed in deeply. Mulder's fist  
clenched. "Everything's going to be okay," she said in the most  
reassuring voice she could muster. Then she drove the stiletto  
into his neck full force.  
  
He didn't make a sound. She stared with eyes wide open. "His  
blood is quite lethal while he's alive," the British man had  
said. "After he dies, that effect seems to be neutralized.  
Still, take no chances. Cover your eyes and get out as fast as  
you can." But she didn't dare move away. And she didn't dare  
close her eyes.  
  
She pulled the blade out as swiftly as she'd driven it in and  
bright green liquid flowed out from the hole. She stood and  
watched as what was once seemingly human melted away into a  
puddle of green on the table.  
  
When there was nothing left but a hospital gown soaked in green,  
she turned around. Someone was watching through the window in  
the door. She pushed her way out to find the smoking man there.  
  
"Well done, Dr. Scully," he said, but he wasn't looking at her.  
His gaze was fixed on the small window in the door.  
  
She wanted to walk off to anywhere; get as far as she could from  
that room. After two steps she stopped and turned to the smoking  
man. "You were against terminating him?" He just stared forward  
morosely and in an almost absentminded movement, put a new  
cigarette between his lips. "Why?" He lit it.  
  
"He was family."  
  
She clenched her jaw, fighting back the guilt as he strolled  
off. It occurred to her once or twice on the long walk back out  
to the courtyard that she'd just killed an innocent man. But, as  
much as she thought it over, it seemed to matter more that she  
had saved five billion lives. The more she tried to think about  
it, the more she felt nothing but numb. She was a lot more  
preoccupied with the fact that the thing she held as most sacred  
- science - had betrayed her.  
  
No, she told herself. Not science. Just convention. There was a  
rational scientific explanation behind all this. They had data  
to show her; proof. They need her expertise as a doctor and a  
scientist... and a killer. She fought down the cynical voice  
angrily.  
  
The two elderly men looked at her expectantly as she approached.  
She held out the metal cylinder to them and the British man took  
it from her. "He's dead," she said.  
  
"Very well, young lady. Now go and try to rest. Tomorrow should  
be an interesting day."  
  
* * *  
  
The flight to New York was short. Flying first class had made it  
pleasant enough to balance out her turning stomach. A  
ridiculously expensive cab ride brought her to the corner of 8th  
and 46th. Up on the 23rd floor, she was greeted at the door of  
Waterston Labs by a young man in a lab coat.  
  
"Dr. Scully? I'm Dr. Steve Robinson." She smiled and shook his  
hand. "I'm looking forward to working with you. I've heard a lot  
about you."  
  
"Thank you. I'm really looking forward to working here."  
  
He lead her past the reception desk, and didn't stop talking  
about her last published paper. Just past the desk, on the  
right, was the first thing that had really managed to make her  
relax even slightly since the day she'd spent at Fort Marlene.  
On the door of the room was a golden plaque with her name on it.  
  
She thanked Dr. Robinson and hesitantly opened the door. Just as  
promised, everything from her office was moved there, unpacked  
and ready for her to start work. She shut the door behind her  
and looked around again, unconsciously looking for the flaw that  
she'd missed the first time around. Well, it was smaller than  
her old office, but it gave it a much more comfortable look.  
  
"Enjoying your new office, Dr. Scully?" the distinguished voice  
came from within the room. She reminded herself that, especially  
if she worked for them, these men could show up anywhere.  
  
"Not bad at all," she replied. She found him sitting on the  
couch. He fixed his strong gaze on her and afforded himself a  
little smile.  
  
"And how was your trip?"  
  
"I could get used to the luxury. I don't think I could ever get  
used to the cab drivers."  
  
His smile widened just a little. "This is a great  
responsibility, Dr. Scully. Some in our group still don't think  
you deserve it." Her heart sank. "We'd like you to come before  
them and convince them otherwise. Talk about your work a bit."  
  
"But--" she began to protest.  
  
"Not today," he reassured her. "In a few days, after you've had  
time to settle in. Just give us a call whenever you're ready."  
He handed her a business card with nothing but a phone number  
and a 46th St. address. She put it in her pocket. "Your FBI  
resignation letter is being drafted."  
  
She eased herself into the leather chair behind her new desk.  
"I'd like to see it before they mail it."  
  
"Of course," he nodded. "Our lawyers have also started drawing  
up your divorce papers." Her gaze fell to the floor before she  
could stop it and she looked up quickly. No matter how much  
relief she felt, it was a subject that, she suspected, would  
remain just a little sore for a while yet. "They want to make it  
as speedy as possible. You don't have to be involved at all."  
She nodded.  
  
"Good day, Dr. Scully," he said with the door in his hand, on  
his way out. "I think it's going to be a pleasure working with  
you." She smiled, at least outwardly agreeing with him. Inwardly  
she still wasn't sure what she had gotten herself into. But it  
was probably too late to turn back now.  
  
The door shut softly and her smile slowly faded.  
  
---  
  
  
Feedback is always welcomed at hila-p@barak-online.net 


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